Writing is writing, and stories are stories. Perhaps the only true genres are fiction and non-fiction. And even there, who can be sure?

I’ve been criticised for writing in too complex a manner for younger people.

Azhrarn the Beautiful,” said Chuz lovingly, “it is your beautiful madness I have come to see.

This sight was terrible, more terrible than words can convey, for words are cowards as men are, and hide things as men do.

There’s a saying in High Egypt: The sky won’t listen, so complain all you like.

Then he was gone, and all the colors and the light of the day crumbled and went out.

She has a lot of opinions, which is restful, as that way I don’t have to have many of my own.

I tend not to analyse my work, though I’m frequently intrigued when other people take time to do so.

It’s lovely. I hate it.

I just love writing. It’s magical, it’s somewhere else to go, it’s somewhere much more dreadful, somewhere much more exciting. Somewhere I feel I belong, possibly more than in the so-called real world.